If you are lucky enough to have your farm geared in such a way that you can go off on holiday with hardly a glance behind, then you are indeed in a most fortunate position.

However if like me, you are a one-man band, you may find the whole business of planning a holiday requires extreme precision and no small amount of luck.

I suppose my situation is fairly typical of a lot of local farmers: parents no longer here, youngsters off around the world and a tiny opportunity to sneak off for a week in the middle of summer.

I sometimes like to brag that my farming set-up has the advantage of spreading the eggs across a range of baskets, but the other side of that coin means that I have to carry out some sort of farming activity for 365 days of the year and as the years advance I am less enamoured by the tying nature of these enterprise strings.

This year, saw my poultry houses emptied at just the right time to tie in with a planned holiday. This tends to suit best sometime in July, because it also coincides with the sheep and cattle requiring the least attention.

I then lean on a couple of mates and they take a look at the livestock during the evenings while I’m away.

The aim of holiday is to relax, irrespective of your destination. The “getting away from it all” is supposed to de-stress you so that you return to your farm rested, settled, and completely refreshed. But my real question is, how on earth do you work your socks off for 358 days a year, then instantly transform yourself into this chilled-out dude for seven days? I think it’s nearly impossible.

Day one sees me apparently relaxed, but appearances can be deceptive. I may be in some sunny climate, but part of me is still wondering if the back hill should have got more fertilizer. A few texts may also be sent, just to see what’s happening in the vast world around Killinchy.

By day three, I have stopped texting and to my amazement I am beginning to wake an hour later than normal. In addition, I am losing my desire to think about any kind of farming. I recognise this as some sort of winding down.

Day four and farming has been banished from my thoughts. Books are being devoured and the intense reading is occasionally punctuated by forays into the pool. This pleasure is only broken by my wife’s request: “Derek, could you hold your tummy in a bit? People are staring at you.”

I wonder do other wives play “spot the farmer” while on holiday? Mine swears she can identify any farmer with extreme accuracy. She looks for the bronzed face and arms, accompanied by the small v-shape of sunburn just below throat level.

Next she looks for snow-white legs, with a bald area just where the wellies have rubbed off all the hair. Finally, rather unfairly, she identifies the torso area, which usually displays the tell-tale signs of long-term appreciation of finest local produce. This individual may subsequently be seen reading some agricultural material and then I get a nudge in the ribs, along with: “Told you he was farmer.”

A less pleasant feeling begins to surface during the last day or so of the holiday. That peculiar slump in the pit of the stomach each time I start to think about the work building up at home. I suspect that a longer holiday would be the perfect antidote for this reluctance to take up the reins again, but I’m not sure. Other people tell me, a little gloatingly, that it takes three weeks to relax properly. Maybe someday I’ll discover if they are correct.

The biggest challenge of all is switching from holiday setting to full work mode. I really struggle to adapt, to the extent that it almost negates the benefits of getting away from it all. My secret is to return on a Friday evening and then the weekend offers the chance to ease back into work, without the sudden shock of swinging from one to the other.